


(Just Like) Starting Over

by 3scoremiles10



Series: Highlander [2]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:22:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27534451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3scoremiles10/pseuds/3scoremiles10
Summary: Our life togetherIs so precious togetherWe have grown, we have grownAlthough our love is still specialLet's take a chance and fly awaySomewhere aloneIt's been too long since we took the timeNo-one's to blame, I know time flies so quicklyBut when I see you darlingIt's like we both are falling in love againIt'll be just like starting overStarting overKronos, Methos and Mac, with disharmonies in several parts.
Relationships: Kronos (Highlander)/Methos (Highlander)
Series: Highlander [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2240
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	1. 1

_(Just Like) Starting Over_

“Our lager, which art in bottles, hallowed by thy foam.” Methos raised his latest beer in a salute to the heavens – well, a salute to the ceiling of his flat – and then flipped the cap off with a swift, practiced move. “Thy keg be tapped, thy will be drunk -” He paused, took a swallow, and then corrected himself. “No, actually, _I_ will be drunk, if I can bloody well manage it – at home as it is in the tavern.” He cocked his head and regarded his bottle thoughtfully. “Or at Joe’s, if I ever head back that way. Which is, on the whole, rather unlikely at this juncture. Shame. Good beer.”

Good music, too – and good company, even if he wasn’t thinking about that these days. Best not to dwell. And in any case, he had beer – oh, the wonders of home fucking delivery – and even without the company he could do something about the music. Didn’t even have to cross the room for that. There was a remote around here somewhere, in this mess; he had seen it – what, two days ago? Three? – when he had been shouting obscenities in barrack room Latin at that travesty of a translation of Marcus Furius Bibaculus (and old Marcus may have been a crashing bore, full of the sort of excruciating anecdotes Methos had always seemed to get trapped listening to at dull dinner parties on the Aventine when his couch was too far from the door to make a break for it and the slaves seemed determined to ignore his frantic gestures for more wine fucking _please_ , but even that puffed-up old pedant’s middling-indifferent poetry deserved a better treatment than to be butchered by a too-earnest academic with a tin ear for language and all the aesthetic senses of a sea-urchin!) that the university had commissioned before Adam bloody Pierson went rogue and …

Methos’ foot came down with a dull crack on something plastic with buttons, and the stereo shot into life at full volume. Squawking in alarm, Methos managed an impromptu juggling arrangement that kept him from spilling his beer while he scrabbled on the floor, jabbing furiously at the volume control. He found the power button instead and the sound died, only to be replaced by a reproachful pounding from overhead. Old Mrs duFresne, registering her disapproval. 

Old Mrs duFresne kept a regiment of cats, at least one of which was an un-neutered tom with a penchant for spraying over Methos’ morning paper. Before he read it. Bastard. Methos had sworn that if he ever caught the bloody animal, he would see to the neutering himself. He had an impressive collection of very sharp knives, and he’d done enough doctoring over the years to know exactly where to cut. Exactly.

Or he just might eat the thing. Hadn’t eaten cat in years. It did not, contrary to popular belief, taste like chicken. Not so much as other things tasted like chicken. 

And thank you Caspian for _that_ piece of culinary awareness.

The cat in question was, Methos recalled, a grey. With the flat green eyes of a demon.

_Like yours then, brother._

Methos glanced, irritated, towards the balcony door. A sword leaned there against the door frame, long heavy blade and dark hilt. There was a part of him still that did not like having it out of his hand; for the first few weeks he had carried it incessantly (compulsively, actually, if he was being honest), letting it lean against his leg like a pet dog while he read or worked on his laptop, laying it over the small kitchenette benchtop when he ate, curling about it under the covers at night. It had taken an effort of will to set it aside; it took an ongoing effort not to pick it up again. The first time he had forced himself to walk away from it, there had been silence for days. 

“Chatty today, are we?” 

There was no answer, and Methos scowled, then turned his attention back to the pounding. The light fitting shivered as the old woman upstairs did something particularly emphatic with her broom. Methos gave the light his best narrow-eyed glare, then turned the stereo back on.

“Take _that_ , you old bitch.”

He let the music soar at full volume for a handful of heartbeats, the obnoxious and obscenely cheerful bubblegum sound of the latest in manufactured music (and as much as the song grated on every nerve he had, Methos was glad for once that every bloody radio station in the country seemed to have it on high fucking rotate just now, since what it lacked in musical integrity it more than made up for in its ability to irritate cat-hoarding old harridans) making the double glazing rattle in harmony and Methos grin his sharpest, most unrepentant grin –

_‘… what I want what I really really want, so tell me what you want what you really really want, I’ll tell you …’_

\- then dialled down the volume to a more livable level and joined in on the hook line in a sardonic, yet pleasant, tenor; “I wanna, I wanna, I wanna, I wanna really really really wanna zig-ah zig-aaaah!”

Old Mrs deFresne, he noted, had ceded the field.

Victory. He raised his arms to accept the silent accolades of the invisible masses, then flicked the station at random to something less objectionable to the human ear (and really, he thought cats fucking would be less objectionable, but failing that he settled for something surging and post-punk extolling the virtues of sex and drugs – _‘… lose my clothes, lose my lube …’_ – that he found he rather liked, and god, what the hell was the name of this band? Something psuedo-medical, wasn’t it?) and flung himself into a comfortably boneless sprawl on a pile of cushions near the foot of his bed.

In his small, incredibly cluttered bloody flat.

He could have afforded better, of course, but mediocrity came with an anonymity that money couldn’t buy, and besides, he had never planned to stay here for long. Just long enough to find his balance again, long enough for the worst of the wounds – his own, for the most, but others had been hurt too – to mend. And Methos was used to modest accommodations, if it came to that. Grad students had to be seen to live within their means. Even extremely talented ones with a dazzling gift for dead languages.

Adam Pierson, he thought, not for the first time, was horribly under-appreciated. And he needed a better paying job.

Or Methos needed a better alter.

He’d been considering that, actually. He wasn’t sure how much use he was going to get out of Adam, now. It would be a shame to give him up – it had taken a hell of a lot of work and background to construct him, and besides, people seemed to _like_ Adam, and Methos rather enjoyed Adam’s bookish, inoffensive life – but the Pierson identity had been compromised of late. Mostly by Mac and Joe

_(thought we weren’t thinking about Mac and Joe?)_

_(we’re not. we’re thinking about Adam)_

and his own odd impulses – and really, did he not know better by now than

to get involved? Especially with MacLeod. People like MacLeod trailed danger behind them like Hailey’s comet, and Mac was one of the worst

_(best)_

Methos had seen, wandering around with a metaphorical target pinned to his chest and a terrible lack of self-interest, indulging an obsession for walking headfirst into trouble for everyone’s sake but his own. If there was anyone in the whole fucking world Methos should avoid all associations with, it was Duncan bloody MacLeod. The man was, quite simply, bad for his health.

In fact, if Methos was being honest, Duncan was bad for _Duncan’s_ health.

The last time he had seen Duncan MacLeod they had been in a churchyard in Bordeaux, with three thousand years and the shards of their friendship stretched out between them. MacLeod hadn’t understood a thing. Not the brotherhood Methos had known, or the strength of the ties that had bound him still, in spite of everything, to the men who had died at MacLeod’s hands and his own; not that whatever regrets Methos might have had – about that mad witch Cassandra, about anything at all – they had not been for anything he had done, but for what he had not; and not the plain and simple fact that above all else, Methos wanted to live, and he wanted Mac to live too.

That was why Methos had walked away.

If he saw Mac again, Methos thought he might well kill the man. Permanently, and with extreme prejudice. Or end up dead himself from trying. Either way, nobody wanted that.

Methos missed him horribly.

_Nice job, that not thinking about MacLeod. Really got that nailed, don’t you? Really got the boat pushed out on that one. Yeah. When it comes to not thinking about MacLeod, you’re a fucking champion. If there’s a ‘Not Thinking About Mac’ trophy, you **own** that bitch._

_Shut up_.

Scowling to himself, Methos took another long pull at his beer (breakfast of champions, and any bastard who doubted him could go look at the pyramids and _then_ complain about where the sun might be in comparison to the bloody yard arm) and cast an exasperated eye around his small flat. He hadn’t been here long, only a little over a month; it was a modest studio apartment in a modest building – a walk-up, but there was decent heating and plenty of hot water and a small balcony that spilled natural light over the bed (he needed that; he struggled through mornings enough these days without robbing himself of the chemical effects of sunlight too – he was still, when it came right down to it, a creature of his time, tuned to waking with the sun and curling up under thick covers in the dark) and it had come partly furnished, which had been convenient since most of his own things were either still in Paris or locked up in storage. So the building suited him – there was reasonable security and a back way out, should he need it – and the suburb did grey anonymity like an art. But oh, gods above and below and small demons to boot, this flat really needed to be bigger.

Or he needed to quit hoarding stuff like a pack-rat.

Not his fault. Most of this stuff wasn’t even his. Well, technically it was – legally it was, and how in the name of every god Methos didn’t believe in Kronos had managed that … clearly the man had had some very good people working for him. Methos supposed that was no surprise: Kronos had never been one for putting up with sloppy work. Methos had not expected to be hunted down by hard-bastard lawyers though, the kind that he might have expected to find in bed with the Russian mafia (fun guys, the _vory v zakone_ , once you got past the obsession with tattoos and the sense of imminent danger – and actually, knowing Kronos, the _Bratva_ connection wasn’t all that unlikely), and informed he was the sole beneficiary to one Mark Kareros’ will. 

Mark fucking _who_?

And now look. His flat was full of crap. Boxes stacked any which way, some open, some not. Weapons that would have given either the average SWAT team kittens or the average antiquities curator wet dreams; a collection of African art that was probably worth the GDP of a small European nation; an incredibly ironic triptych, the central panel depicting – what else – the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse (oh, ha bloody ha, K) descending in a rain of fire (and on black velvet too, Kronos? Really? God, _why?_ ), complete with a fine bronze plaque (and yes, of course it was bronze, and ha bloody ha to that too, and come _on_ , surely Kronos was taking the piss with this, wasn’t he?) engraved in a script that Methos had to open some very old doors in his brain to decipher in spite of the fact that he had been the one to teach Kronos how to use it (and god, he remembered that now, remembered Kronos dismissing his scribblings as pointless nonsense and then relenting and struggling so hard to learn, furious with the symbols for not making sense but fiercely determined to wrangle their secrets, and in the end he had, and he had been so bloody proud of himself, and Methos had been proud of him too and fucking _said_ so and Kronos had given him that bright, boyish smile … and see, now, all these years, all these fucking _millennia_ later, and Kronos had still had those signs at his fingertips, had still been able to make them speak), a plaque that read, in a language dead so long that the stars had shifted since it was spoken, ‘Me and the lads. Good times.’

Kronos had always had a biting sense of humour. And a very finely tuned sense of the absurd.

Methos had immediately hung the triptych, hideous black velvet monstrosity that it was, over his bed. Then he had laughed until he cried.

The tears had hurt.

There were sundry other marvels, of course. Including Kronos’ music collection. Vinyls, many of them signed and carefully sealed in plastic sleeves; CDs, some of them labelled with his name on Post-It notes in that same ancient script as the plaque; a pair of Fender Stratocaster guitars, one battered to hell (clearly he’d used it, vigorously and often, and gods and goddesses, didn’t Methos know that feeling – Kronos had always been hardest on the things he most cared for) and one pristine and signed by all the members of both the Stones _and_ The Who – past and present and dead. Oh, and a drum kit. Methos shook his head at that, eyeing the corner where he had set the thing up in defiance of all sense and reason. What the fuck did he want with a custom Gretsch drum kit that looked like it had gone three fucking rounds with Keith Moon (and take _that_ , Mac; Pop Culture 101, Professor ‘Mad-Dog’ Pierson coming right _atcha_ )? Why did Kronos even have -

_(warm wind across the steppes, and the sparks of the fire flaring in the dark as the dancers stamped and whirled in the glow; Kronos, long-bodied drum between his knees and an intense, far-off look in his eyes, slap-thumping out a rhythm full of tricks and half-beats and spiralling energy that roused body and spirit into movement and life and joy)_

All right, of course he had drums. Kronos had been a dancer, a musician, a poet all his life – of course he had drums.

And anyway, hadn’t Joe once told him that there was something special about drummers? Something about them being an odd breed, as they’d been watching the night’s band sound-check for the set while their percussionist lay on his back over the top of the bar, reciting the top shelf backwards. His pre-performance ritual, apparently. Joe hadn’t been surprised. ‘Every drummer I’ve ever met has been on a sliding scale for some value of weird,’ – yes, that was what he’d said.

Some value of weird. Yeah, that fit. Methos snorted half a laugh and turned a sardonic eye on the sword reclining in its spot against the wall. 

“Well, K, you always were one of a kind,” he said, tipping his now mostly empty bottle to the sword in a wry tribute. “Never anyone like you.”

Thank the gods. Or not.

Methos missed him horribly too. Mostly.

_Oh, and by the way, nice job not thinking about Joe for that matter. Totally on a roll, here. A real twofer._

It would have been good, Methos thought dryly, if that voice did not sound so much like Richie. He really could have done without that.

“Dude,” he added, out loud, for emphasis. “Duuuuude.” And rolled his eyes hard enough to hurt.

_Are we also not thinking about Richie?_

Methos blinked, taken aback. _We never think about Richie._ _What the hell does Richie have to do with the price of diamonds in Antwerp?_

There was a faint stirring in the base of his brain, and Methos saw the flicker of faded images, felt the distant current of amusement. White stones spilling over

_(black velvet)_

_(don’t take the piss)_

a dark table; a briefcase with a false lining. Methos gave a tight, knowing smile.

_Running diamonds, were you, brother? Why am I not surprised?_

Silent laughter brushed up against Methos’ mind and he laughed too, low and under his breath, and took the last mouthful of beer. 

“Of course you were,” he said wryly. “Pest. Probably right out of Liberia and damn the blood. Didn’t leave me any of those though, did you?”

_~ Liberia, Sierra Leone. Angola._ Not words so much as images, impressions. Faint, like something sensed through fog. If Methos had known him less well, he would not have been able to make out anything at all. As it was, the spark of Kronos in him was pale to the point of smoke. _Diamonds out, guns in. Fun, challenging, as lucrative as hell. Good times._

_I’ll bet._ Methos snorted. Kronos’ affinity for chaos went way back; he had learned long ago that crisis and opportunity went hand in hand. They had both learned that, in truth. Learned it together, the hard way in a hard

_(what do you mean gone, how can everything be gone?)_

_(half the fucking island’s gone, we have to)_

_(not without)_

_(all gone all)_

time, and exploited the hell out of it. 

Still sprawling in his nest of pillows (he never really had got the hang of chairs; sprawling was just so much more _natural_ than perching like a bird on a stick), Methos leaned backwards until his head was resting on the foot of his low bed and regarded the ugly triptych

_(me and the lads)_

upside down in imitation of that weird bar-top drummer. It didn’t make the picture look any better.

“That,” he announced to the flat in general, “doesn’t look a bit like us.” And then, with a sigh, “Damn it all K, what were you thinking?”

_( … came for you … )_

_I know_. Methos studied the black velvet picture, and remembered how the horses had run with their bright tails streaming. Kronos’ pale eyes had been bright too, shining under the dark lines of kohl. _You shouldn’t have jumped, brother. Shouldn’t have done this to yourself. To me._

_~ Find MacLeod._ Clear, imperative. That one always was. Methos sighed and pulled himself right side up.

_No._

And oh hell, but that hurt to say. Still. Hurt because he _wanted_ to see MacLeod again; hurt because Kronos deserved more from him than to be left to hang like this, neither one thing nor the other, caught in between by what they were and by the leap he had made, reaching out to Methos even at the last. Hurt, Methos suspected, because it was damned well supposed to hurt.

It had not stopped hurting since Bordeaux.

There was a space in his heart. Methos could feel it if he let himself, a hollow place that the wind of ages wanted to whistle through. Kronos’ death had left it there. It wasn’t going to fill; there was nothing left to fill it with. Well, there was Mac –

_(we’re not thinking about Mac, remember?)_

_(oh shut up man, don’t you know a lost cause when you see one?)_

– but Mac would not fit into the space that Kronos had left, even if Methos could have risked letting him in; Mac wasn’t made that way. Besides, Methos didn’t feel for the big daft Scot what he had felt for Kronos. MacLeod wasn’t his shield-brother; MacLeod hadn’t stood at his shoulder against a hostile world, giving more than Methos could take, demanding more than Methos could give. Oh, he liked the man well enough – more than he should, probably, given how effortlessly judgemental Duncan could be, how painfully frustrating without even trying – but Mac didn’t make his mouth go dry and his hands shake and his gut knot like oiled rope and his heart leap and sing and howl and crave. He wasn’t fucking _addicted_ to MacLeod.

Not yet, he wasn’t.

_No? What’s the elimination half-life on Highlanders these days, then?_

Methos’ lips twisted into a mirthless grin. He summoned an image of MacLeod into his head, one of the last images he had, of Duncan sleeping with his hair spread out over a hotel pillow – better, so much better than the real last image, of Duncan looking at him with cool, half-angry eyes and his mouth a tight, unhappy line while stone angels stood behind, uncaring, just before Methos had turned and walked away for the last

_(please Fortuna you raddled old whore let it be the last I can’t keep doing this I can’t)_

bloody time – and he held out his empty hand, palm down, fingers spread. Not a tremble. 

_Well, not from your hand. But your heart –_

_Stop it. We’re not talking about my heart._

His hand was steady. Methos nodded, satisfied. Didn’t look like addiction to him, and he _knew_ addiction, as intimate as a lover. He damned well should. After all, he had mainlined Kronos for a thousand years. More. Walking away from that had damn near killed him (and Methos’ bitter smirk became more bitter still, remembering that; cold-turkey withdrawal had not been kind to him, and god, the things he had done back then to fill the empty spaces, the mad risks he had taken … it was a wonder he was still alive) but he had known with dreadful certainty that staying would have destroyed him utterly. Destroyed them both, probably. It had been getting harder and harder to tell where he ended and Kronos began; he had _had_ to find himself again, had to break the ties that Kronos had bound him with – that they had bound each other with, really; crippled each other with, if he was being honest – had to be able to shout to the skies ‘I’m still here!’ and know who he was talking about. 

He had never meant to stay away forever. The world had just … got bigger, that was all. In any case, he knew who he was, now. And having Kronos back again after so very long had felt like coming home.

If home was a cold blade against a willing neck, and warm skin pressing against him in the dark, and a soul that knew him, knew him, _knew_ _him_.

_That_ was addiction.

_~ And MacLeod?_

_A diversion, K._ Methos told himself to stop looking at that bloody sword. The sword didn’t matter. Kronos wasn’t in the bloody sword. _My friend, for a time. Solace, shelter. That’s all._

_~ Well, why not, then? Why not?_

Always that, in the end. Always the same question. Methos wasn’t surprised. Kronos had always been very strongly driven. And he had always had a way of getting what he wanted.

Methos’ answer was always the same. Because he’s my friend. Because he matters. Because I won’t. Because I _can’t_.

That wasn’t much, as answers went. Methos didn’t think he could do any better. It was all he had. Denial, refusal, and a strategy, perfected down the centuries, that he had chosen to put in play.

Do nothing.

Run; hide; do nothing. And that was why he was here, in this cramped and cluttered flat, surrounded by Kronos’ things and his own memories in a city he had known when it had answered to Rome (Londinium, they had called it, known for its bad weather and its hostile natives, and if that didn’t go to show that the more things changed the more they stayed the same, Methos didn’t know what would), enduring the disapproval of the neighbour from hell and her stealthy feline minions.

_Fuck you, Kronos. I love you, but … fuck you. Fuck you six ways ‘til sunrise for doing this to both of us. You shouldn’t have made me chose, you shouldn’t have died, and you shouldn’t have bloody **jumped**._

“And,” Methos added out loud, surveying his surrounds again – the stacks of boxes, the carved wooden masks lined along the walls, the stripped down Uzi that Methos had taken one look at and then locked back in its innocent-seeming case – “you shouldn’t have left me with half a warehouse of your crap to get rid of. Bastard.” And then, in the same breath, “Gods and demons K, I miss you.”

That earned him nothing. Methos sighed and scrubbed a hand through already tousled hair. Kronos floated in and out a lot of the time. Even with his ferocious will, it must be hard to hang on like this. The sword was a good focus, as was any mention of MacLeod, but as for the rest …

It must be hard.

_K? You all right, brother?_

Silence, silence. And then an answer, faint and reaching.

_(… still here …)_ A pause, and then, more clearly, _I’m still here. And there._ A growl at that, grimly intense. _Mostly **there**. Do something about it, will you?_

Do something about it. Methos wrinkled his nose. “I am doing something. I’m drinking beer. I’m listening -” he cocked his head and frowned at the off-kilter, psychedelic sound

_(… ones that mother gives you don’t do anything at all, go ask Alice, when she’s ten feet tall … )_

the stereo was now churning out, “ – to music. Of a sort. I am avoiding that travesty of a translation so that I don’t have to come up with ways of making old Marcus’ drivel actually sound good. And I am _not_ thinking about Mac.”

_~ You have to._

_I won’t do it. I can’t._

_~ You will. You can. You bloody **have** **to**. For me, you have to._

Methos made a sound half-way between a sigh and a growl. His fingers clenched on the bottle he was holding; he made his hands loosen, before the damned thing broke and he cut himself. Didn’t want to get blood on the cushions. Blood was hell to shift. And Kronos … Methos shook his head, expression pained. Sweet merciful Mother, Kronos was gone, fallen to MacLeod’s blade and his own bloody-minded folly –

_~ and your treachery, brother; can’t forget that_

_damn you Kronos, you can’t blame me for this. You didn’t leave me a choice; it wasn’t what I wanted_

_~ no? What did you fucking want?_

_somebody to bloody well **listen** , you stubborn arse!_

– and there was no coming back from that, and never mind how incredibly hard he was fighting; didn’t the crack-brained idiot understand that? Besides, hadn’t Methos given up enough already? Duncan might hate him now, for honest reasons if it came down to it, but at least he was alive to do the hating. Methos could take some small comfort in that. He would have liked to keep it that way. It was, after all, was infinitely better than the alternative. 

Methos should bloody well know.

“I won’t do it. There’s nothing in it for me.” Methos spoke to the air, his voice low and carefully controlled. He sounded far more sure than he felt. He had made this argument so many times before; he was almost convinced by now that he believed it. “You _died,_ K. Even if I do this for you, it doesn’t change that. And then he dies too, and I -” he swallowed, cutting himself off, not wanting to finish

_(they all die)_

that thought. It still hurt. “Damn it Kronos, why should I lose you both?”

_~ Brother_. Quietly chiding, that. Methos could almost see the hard edge of reproach in Kronos’ pale eyes. _You’ll never lose me. And what is he, that losing him should matter?_

_I told you, K. A friend._

_~ Do you think so?_ Oh, that was scorn. _Soft, brother. Soft._

“Don’t, Kronos.” Methos cast a resigned, half-pleading glance at the sword by the balcony door, heavy black hilt so strong against the white. “Don’t.”

Silence again. Methos shrugged, rolling the empty beer bottle between his palms. It was all bare glass now; at some point, without noticing, he had teased the label off the bottle and torn it into thin strips.

Just like he had done with every other bottle he’d emptied this morning. There were – Methos turned his head to count them, ranked up beside his nest of pillows – five of them. 

Not, he considered, nearly enough. Well, that could be remedied. And he had not finished his Hymn to Beer (not quite the proper way to honour Ninkasi, matron goddess of beer and all things brewed, but his Sumerian was pretty rusty these days) either. That was not on. Unfinished prayers angered the gods. Couldn’t have that. Even if he had stopped believing in any gods at all at least seven centuries ago. And take _that_ Fortuna, you haughty, fickle _jaded_ wench.

“Give us this day our daily brew,” he intoned, hauling himself up in search of a fresh bottle, flicking the remote in the direction of the stereo as he went, pressing a button without looking to see what it was before tossing the thing aside. “And forgive us our spillages as we forgive those who spill against us. And that sad junkie cow Alice can fuck off, while we’re at it.”

Behind him, the stereo whirred and clicked, shifting to CD. Methos, halfway across the room now and between two stacks of boxes, felt his spine stiffen.

“No. No no no …”

The first (and by now achingly familiar) strains of a song began to spill across the room in an oddly artful mix of discord and melody, piano in the forefront, simple and plain. And then

_(come on K, please, you’ve done this already, let it go)_

the voice of a dead man who had died for no reason, shot on a New York street; the sound of a talent that had burned bright for the years that it had, as if the man who owned it had somehow known that his time would be short; _‘I was dreaming of the past, and my heart was beating fast. I began to lose control …’_

“Oh. Kronos.” Methos stood where he was a moment, letting the song sink in the way it had the first time he had listened to it in this place, the day he had hung that awful triptych. The disc was one of those with his name on it, but this one had been underlined hard enough that the pen Kronos had used had gone right through the paper, as if he had wanted to be very sure that Methos would play it, and the first time he had heard it, Methos knew why. He had sat on the floor then, leaning back against the kitchen counter, letting the song play over and over and not bothering to wipe the tears rolling down his face because it was _right_ he was crying, it was true and real and _right_ , and Kronos deserved that from him, and the song was right too, and true, and he had known this all along, always known, and why the fuck had K never just stopped, never fucking listened, never changed in all this time and …

_‘I never meant to hurt you. I’m sorry that I made you cry. I didn’t want to hurt you. I’m just a jealous guy.’_

“I know.” _Fuck, sing it, John_. Methos sighed, letting his shoulders slump as he opened the fridge door, glancing back at the sword as he did so. “I know.”

_‘I was feeling insecure; you might not love me anymore –’_

And hell, that was just so damn _Kronos_. One corner of Methos’ mouth curled in an unhappy, lopsided smile. Kronos, insecure? Vulnerable? No one would ever believe it. No one but him.

“I never stopped,” he said in a low, almost inward voice. “Loved you, hated you, the whole fucking works.” Grabbing for a beer, he came up with the whole six pack, regarded it for a pensive moment, then shrugged and set it on the counter. Six was fine. Six would do.

If Kronos was going to keep this shit up, he would need six. At least.

_‘I was shivering inside, I was shivering inside.’_

“You and me both, brother.” Pulling a bottle from the cardboard liner, Methos snapped the top away – it clattered somewhere down by the small pantry doors – and tipped a nod to the silent sword. “Knife to the heart will do that.”

The sword didn’t respond. It just sat there and watched. Methos grunted. “Fine. Be that way.”

The song was winding down, John Lennon assuring him again in what might as well have been Kronos’ own words that he had never meant to make him cry, that he was just a jealous guy. Methos didn’t argue. The CD would swing over to its next track soon, and then his heart would unclench again and he could get on with some serious drinking. And maybe a little of that toxic translation after all: Adam did need some kind of income. He ran a hand over the remaining bottles in the waiting six pack, drawing winding figure eight patterns with his finger. Eternity, on its side. Ninkasi. Right.

“Lead us not into incarceration, but deliver us from hangovers. For thine is the yeast, the hops and the barley, in kegs and in barrels. Barmen.”

_(joe)_

_(stop it)_

Tipping his head back for a long swallow – call it communion – Methos poured a healthy mouthful down his throat … and came up coughing, eyes watering, as the harsh, insectile hum of someone else’s quickening went up his spine and into the base of his brain

_(run run now danger danger run)_

like a small panicking animal with teeth. 

The door buzzer sounded. Methos stared at it, spluttering a little still (and a wry voice in his head was observing that if he had to try and drown himself, at least drowning in beer wasn’t a total loss) and wishing very hard for that other buzz – _danger warning danger_ – to go away.

It didn’t. His knuckles, wrapped around the beer bottle still in his hand, were white. The chittering animal in his brain eased off, stopped chewing red lines down his central nervous system; panic was only his initial reaction to that hum. After that, he preferred to think.

He thought he might not answer the door. He thought, in fact, not answering the door was a very good idea. Capital letters, underlined.

The newcomer would know he was here, of course. Unless his visitor was so new to the game that their range didn’t extend beyond ten feet (and how neophytes ever survived past their first decade, Methos was damned if he knew – poor bastards were practically running blind, with a range like that), Methos’ own quickening would be like a neon bloody sign.

A really ancient, very bright neon sign.

“Get it here,” Methos muttered to himself. “Genuine number one quickening, love you long time.” He took another careful swallow of his beer, making sure not to choke this time. To the door buzzer he said, “Go away. Not playing, not interested. Sod off.”

The buzzer sounded again, and the intercom crackled with a burst of static. Methos’ heart sank. He knew what he was going to hear, he knew, he _knew_ … Under his breath, he found himself whispering, “No Mac, go away, please don’t be you, no Mac, go away.”

“Adam? Adam, it’s me. MacLeod.”

_Idiot_. Methos managed to simultaneously slump against the counter in relief and cast the intercom unit a glittering, hard-eyed glare. He mouthed the words back, lips twisted in disgust. ‘It’s me. MacLeod.’ As if he hadn’t recognised the man’s voice the moment the first syllable left his mouth. Methos was only surprised the great daft git hadn’t added that clan nonsense too. It had been nearly two months since they had spoken, after all – careful, sparing words on holy ground before they’d both gone their separate ways (and if that wasn’t Regret 1001, Methos didn’t know what was, but damned if he was telling MacLeod that); Duncan probably thought he’d forgotten who he was.

As if he could forget who Duncan was.

In the back of his head, the black-hilted sword was singing, very quietly, on the edge of joy. And the low warm drone of MacLeod’s presence had become a subtle but sure _tug_.

Kronos, calling, waking up.

_No. No no no. Fuck no._

Methos vaulted over the kitchenette’s small counter and mashed his hand to the intercom button. Behind him, his beer bottle lay on its side, spilling amber liquid over the grey faux-marble counter-top. A part of Methos grieved

_(forgive us our spillages)_

for that. The rest of him ignored it, and snapped harshly at the little beige box on the wall.

“Go. Away.”

There was a pause, then another staticky crackle from the intercom. “Adam, it’s all right. It’s me. Only me.”

MacLeod was using his ‘reassuring’ voice. His ‘don’t be afraid, the cavalry is here’ warm-blankets-and-whisky voice. Methos hated it. He wasn’t the one who needed protecting, here. He jabbed at the button again, fiercely enough to make the plastic box that housed it creak.

“Sorry, not interested.”

“Adam, for God’s sake!”

_Don’t_ , Methos thought savagely, _flatter yourself, Mac_. He didn’t answer. 

“Adam, please. I have to talk to you.” And then, lower and blurred, as if MacLeod had leaned in close to the intercom downstairs, “Methos. Please.”

Methos growled in his throat and pressed the button, hard. His voice was a hiss, pure venom. “Don’t. Use. That. Name.”

“No one’s here, no one can hear …”

“Fuck you. Go away.” Then, very clear and deliberately cruel; “I don’t know you.” _And you bloody well don’t know me, remember Mac? Remember?_

That made the voice at the other end of the intercom pause, and Methos could imagine MacLeod standing in the cold down there, his brows drawn down in a hurt and puzzled frown, his lips sinking into that familiar, confused pout. It made him feel like he’d just kicked a puppy. He scowled, and kicked the wainscoting instead.

Upstairs, old Mrs duFresne banged on the floor again. Methos spared her a glare too, and kicked the wainscoting harder. War on two fronts, was it? Fine then. Yes.

“Me … Adam.” Well, at least he was listening. To some things, anyway. “Adam. Please. Before … before we last spoke, in Bordeaux, you left me a note. The night that … well. That night. Do you remember what it said?”

To the bloody letter. Methos gave a pained grimace and dragged a hand over his face. Oh, he was hating this. Across the room, John Lennon confided that people thought he was crazy, doing what he was doing. Methos could sympathise. 

_‘… surely you’re not happy now you no longer play the game …’_

_Want to bet?_

Mac was still talking. Methos clenched his jaw and stared at the wall beside the intercom, willing the voice to stop.

“That note … if you meant it, if you want me to live, you have to let me up. I need to talk to you. I _need_ to.”

If he meant it? That earned a bleak, despairing laugh. God, if he meant it then letting MacLeod come up here was the last bloody thing he should do. MacLeod shouldn’t be in the same city as him, let alone in the same bloody room. In fact, Methos would prefer that he was not even in the same country. Not with the way that black sword was singing, and the oddly anticipatory feel in the part of his head that wasn’t always him anymore. Not with the flare of Kronos’ lightning that MacLeod’s being here woke under Methos’ skin. It wasn’t safe. It just wasn’t.

He braced himself to refuse, and to refuse cuttingly, using his most scathing, most hurtful words – _no, I didn’t mean it Mac, I didn’t mean a fucking word, I used you and I lied to you and I don’t care if you live or die, you’re nothing to me, nothing, you never bloody mattered at all –_ knowing that he would strike something dead when he did it, something in Duncan and something in himself, but it was necessary because the option … the option …

He looked up. His hand was on the door release, holding the button down. 

Well, fuck.

Ladies and gentlemen, Duncan MacLeod has entered the building.

Dragging in a deep breath, Methos turned slowly to face the now-silent sword that idled still in its place against the white-framed balcony door. He gave it a hard, accusing stare.

“You did that. Didn’t you?”

The sword didn’t answer. Methos’ gaze narrowed. Kronos could play the innocent with him all he liked. Methos knew better. That lent his voice a harder edge, grim and demanding, the tone of the Horseman. “Kronos. What are you up to? What have you done?”

_~ He’s here_. Nothing distant about that at all; this was Kronos on the edge of battle – bright, joyous, wickedly intense. _Time to_ _do something about it, brother_.

“Not,” Methos said tightly, to whoever might be listening, “if I can bloody well help it.”

Folding his arms stubbornly, he turned his back on the sword and waited, glaring at the closed and locked door. Then, with a curse and a suddenly defiant surge, he thumbed back the lock and let the door stand ajar. If Duncan MacLeod were coming to his doorstep whether he liked it or not, then Methos could have that much say in it, at least.

It wasn’t all Kronos. It wasn’t.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "People say I'm crazy  
> Doing what I'm doing  
> Well, they give me all kinds of warnings  
> To save me from ruin  
> When I say that I'm okay, well they look at me kinda strange  
> "Surely, you're not happy now, you no longer play the game"

Duncan looked terrible. That was Methos’ second thought. His first was that the idiot Scot was standing there with his hands full of mail and his sword nowhere in sight. That made him want to snarl in despair.

_God, Mac, don’t bloody **trust** me. We’ll never get out of this alive if you trust me!_

“Hello, Methos.” MacLeod extended the hand that was holding most of the mail – a large brown folio-sized envelope, a cluster of bills and a brace of pamphlets marked ‘To the Occupant’. “I brought up your mail.” His voice was odd, wrong, a pale and worn version of itself. Methos frowned at him. MacLeod went on. “Your paper’s here too,” – and he raised his other hand, newspaper suspended in a fastidious thumb-and-forefinger grip – “… but I think a cat beat me to it.”

“Grey?”

“Excuse me?”

“The cat. Was it a grey?”

MacLeod blinked, clearly puzzled. “I, uh … I don’t … There was a grey cat. On the stairs. Friendly thing.”

Friendly. Methos grunted, unimpressed. What was a good side-dish with cat? “Fine. You can give it a kick from me on the way out. Thanks for coming, Mac; great to see you, it’s been a blast, we must do this again sometime.” Taking the bundle of mail – that folio envelope looked interesting, but Mac could keep the wretched paper – Methos turned away. “Bugger off now, okay?” He started to swing the door closed.

MacLeod’s hand shot out, stopping the door dead. The paper fell to the floor with a damp unpleasant thud.

“Methos. Please. I don’t know … I don’t know why …” He frowned with his whole face, the way he did when he was thinking very hard. Methos watched him sidelong, not liking the tightness in his stomach or the whispers in the back of his head.

_(do something)_

_(no)_

“All right, perhaps I do know why you’re being like this, but -”

_You don’t, Mac. You don’t._

“ – but please, I need to talk to you. Will you let me in?”

“Best not.” Methos gave the door another shove, his words curt, dismissive. They had to be. _It’s for your own good, you great Highland oaf_. _Probably for my good, too_. “I think you were right, actually. We’re through.”

“No, wait.” MacLeod braced his arm, pushing the door back; then, as Methos stepped away with a frustrated shrug, he let his hand fall. His voice, still burdened with that washed out sound, seemed somewhere between an anger he couldn’t find and an anguish he couldn’t express. “Damn it Methos, listen to me. I need your help. I can’t do this alone.”

_Help me Mac. I don’t know if I can do this alone._ Methos closed his eyes and let his head drop. Ah, but he hadn’t said that, had he? He had said something entirely else. _Yes. I killed ten thousand. Is that what you want to hear? Yes._ And Mac had walked away.

_I wanted him to._

_I didn’t want him to._

No. Pushing those thoughts aside, Methos raised his head, eyes flaring. He could not afford to be kind about this. He bared his teeth in something sharp and curved that was not quite a smile. MacLeod needed to leave. Before that sword woke up again. Before the fire of Kronos’ quickening that pulsed with every beat of Mac’s heart and was answered by something deep inside Methos, something that _burned_ , drove him completely mad. Before the whispers took hold and Methos did something he would not be able to take back. Oh, by all the gods that never were, MacLeod really needed to leave.

“What’s the matter, Mac? My brothers giving you trouble?” Methos tilted his head, and his not-quite smile turned into almost a blade. “Cas keeping you up at night, maybe? Kronos not settling as well as you’d like?”

“He’s not settling at all!” MacLeod burst out with it all at once, then stopped as if he had not meant to say so much. He made a small, confounded gesture with one hand, checking himself, and then went on in a low and desperate tone. “His voice is in my head, his memories won’t stop and oh god Methos, _what did you do_? You and him, you and the others. There’s so much … so much …” Interrupting himself with an uneven breath, MacLeod seemed to be fighting something down, and Methos watched with grim attention

_(nearly that time, brother)_

_(how the hell are you doing this, K?)_

as those big square hands curled into fists and slowly released. MacLeod went on, his voice breathy, unsteady, on the very edge of control. “He won’t stop. He _pushes_. And Caspian … I dream, and I, I see -” Another pause, and the sound he made was half a laugh, and half absolute horror. “Mother of God, what was _wrong_ with Caspian?”

Methos heard his own laugh in answer, and thought it didn’t sound much better than MacLeod’s. _Oh, Caspian_. And then; _Oh, Mac_. “Experiencing a few strange food cravings, are you MacLeod? Ah, well, I wouldn’t want Caspian crawling around in my head, either. Not to worry though; they’ll pass. Eventually.” 

“It’s not just that, it’s … hellish. Like a Goya painting. And his _head_. It’s like looking through a sheet of blood, and he’s hungry _all the time_ , and his head …” MacLeod raised his hands to his own temples as if trying to shield himself from pain and looked at Methos in appeal. “What was wrong with him? What happened to him?”

Well, there was a question for the ages. Methos thinned his lips and gave a one-sided shrug. “Starved to death too many times, I should think. Ever do that, MacLeod? Actually starve?” He cocked his head, regarding the other man with an inscrutable half-smile that had nothing gentle in it at all. “I have. But not like Cas did. Not over and over again.” Methos’ lips thinned; the shadows in the flat made his cheeks seem gaunt and hollow. “Starvation’s an ugly death, Mac. Slow. It aches. And it goes on and on and _on_. You see, the problem with dying of starvation is that when you revive, you’re still starving. You’re still dying. So the pain doesn’t stop, the _need_ doesn’t stop. Do that for long enough, and maybe that’s what normal starts to feel like.” He shrugged again, leaning his shoulder against the door. Casual and cruel. He felt like broken glass. “Cas’ people blamed him when the waters failed. Don’t ask me why. They chained him to a rock in their dead village and left him there. I don’t know how long. Ten years? Twenty? He must have died a hundred deaths. A thousand. Thirst; exposure; hunger. He was skin and bone, when we found him. Like sundried leather over old sticks. Famine made flesh, even if he didn’t have any flesh on him. He was howling from the pain, Mac, and trying to eat his own hands.”

MacLeod made a low, appalled sound, staring at him in horror. “God. Methos. When you said …” He rubbed a hand over his face, showing his bloodshot eyes. His knuckles rasped against his jaw; he hadn’t shaved. He really did look awful. “When you said the times were different, the world was different, I didn’t know. I didn’t know.”

“Of course you didn’t, Mac. The Discovery Channel doesn’t really provide the full experience, does it?” Methos’ pleasant smile never touched his eyes. He reached around to shut the door. “Goodbye.”

“No, please. Wait.” MacLeod took a quick step forward, blocking the door with his body. “Methos. Please. If we were ever friends, please.”

Oh, too easy. _No Mac, we were never friends; you were interesting, you were entertaining, you were even useful – but we weren’t friends_. Just that, just those words, and MacLeod would walk away

_(again)_

and take his head with him, and all would be well, all would be well, all manner of things would be well.

No they wouldn’t. They’d be fucked to hell.

_I don’t want to lose you, Mac. But more than that, I want you to live, and I’m not sure we can have it both ways. I’m not safe for you now, don’t you understand that?_

MacLeod wouldn’t understand that. Even with Methos holding Kronos’ sword to his neck, he wouldn’t understand that. MacLeod had a terrible faith in people. It would be the death of him, one day. Methos sighed.

_If we were ever friends._

Clever bastard. Or maybe Kronos was right. Maybe he was just going soft. He glanced over his shoulder at the sword, leaning quietly where he had left it. It was not urging him to kill, so far. That was one thing, at least.

_Behave, you._

_~ Tyrant_. A whisper, warm and wicked. _Let him in. I’ve something to show you._

_What?_ Suspicious, wary. Methos knew better than to trust that tone. Kronos was always at his most charming just before he tore someone’s throat open with his teeth, and his tricks were seldom kind.

_~ A diversion, if I can manage it. Yes?_

_You’ll behave?_

_~ I won’t ask you to do anything you don’t want, brother. Will that do?_

Methos supposed it would have to. He gave the man standing in his doorway – shadowed eyes and drawn, tense lines – a long, hard look

_(not safe this isn’t safe)_

then sighed again and turned away, leaving the door wide open. He tossed the mail down on the kitchenette’s small counter, avoiding the puddle from the overturned bottle, and scooped up two of the waiting beers. 

“Here.” He held out one bottle to Mac, a reluctant invitation. “You look like you need it.”

“You’ve nothing stronger?” MacLeod’s smile was a weak thing and crooked, but it eased the harrowed look about his eyes. He stepped inside, carefully shutting the door behind him, and took the offered bottle. His eyes flicked to the stereo, which was crooning dreamily now, encouraging them to imagine there’s no heaven, it’s easy if you try. He raised his brows a little and cast a questioning look at Methos, who looked flatly back. He wasn’t going to explain Kronos’ musical tastes to anyone. Least of all MacLeod.

_No hell below us, above us only sky._

Smart guy, John.

“There’s scotch somewhere. But that probably wouldn’t be wise.”

MacLeod nodded, seeming to hear the warning behind that. “You going to start throwing knives at me again?”

“I might.” Methos swiped at the spilled beer with a bar-cloth that he flung into the sink, then he leaned against the counter and pulled the folio envelope towards him. It had the unmistakable sense of substance that in Methos’ considerable experience could only be possessed by either a sword or a book, and plainly this wasn’t a sword. The lettering in the address box was familiar. Russian mafia again. Glancing darkly at MacLeod, he teased at the heavy adhesive holding down the flap. “Don’t rule it out.” 

The envelope was stubborn. John Lennon wanted the world to live as one. Methos swore under his breath. Honestly, if people were going to bother with putting dotted lines and instructions to ‘tear here’, they should have the decency to make sure the bloody things tore. There were times when a man just could not trust himself with a blade. He flicked MacLeod another short look.

“How did you find me?”

MacLeod, who had been turning on the spot, looking about at the shambles of a room, turned back to Methos with a start that looked almost guilty. Interesting. Methos pushed the envelope aside and regarded him closely.

“Mac?”

“I was … uh. Just passing through.”

“South London?” Oh, very dry. “You don’t just ‘pass through’ South London, Mac.” He pronounced it ‘Sarf Lahndahn’, heavy on the sarcasm.

Duncan made a face, like he didn’t want to talk about it. He took a couple of steps away from the door and gestured at a pair of intricately patterned Tuareg shields, flanking a high-cantled ceremonial saddle. “These are impressive. Old. Do you have provenance for them?”

“They were Kronos’,” Methos told him bluntly, tossing the name out like a challenge to make MacLeod flinch. “So, no.” Well, not unless the _Bratva_ lawyers had made something up; he didn’t know, he hadn’t checked. MacLeod looked unhappy.

“They’re worth good money, to the right collectors.” Moving along the wall, MacLeod paused amid an array of ceremonial masks and asked, as if the question hurt, “Is it all his?”

“Yes. His idea of a joke, I think, inflicting his junk on me.” Methos shrugged. “I’m not interested in selling. I was thinking of an anonymous donation.”

“Museum?”

“Yes. Or a gallery. Or, you know, a rubbish skip.” Methos tipped his head. He had seen MacLeod in a variety of moods – brooding, laughing, angry, confused – but he had never seen him like this. If there was one thing the man did not lack for it was confidence, but right now, he seemed hesitant, evasive. As if he had used up all his reserves just getting here and arguing his way through the door, and now that he had, he didn’t know what to do. “Mac. Who else knows I’m here?”

“No one. No one knows. Joe’s worried about you. The Watchers … I think the Watchers have issued Adam with a dishonourable discharge. You were seen, at Bordeaux, and people started asking questions. Joe’s been holding them off.” Mac’s grimace was sidelong, wary. He set his untouched beer down on one of the stacked boxes and gave an uncomfortable shrug. “I’m sorry, Methos. They don’t know anything for sure, but I think they suspect Adam’s one of us.”

Fuck. One more thing to deal with. Add it to the list. Pierson was starting to look less and less useful all the time. “What else do they suspect?”

“Nothing, Joe says. No one’s connected Adam with … well, you.” Moving towards the corner of the room, MacLeod stopped by the drum kit and flicked a finger against the skin of the snare, making a _thock-shhhh_ sound. “You play?”

“What?” Methos was toying with the envelope again, and keeping half an eye on the place where Kronos’ heavy sword leaned indolently on the wall. Why was he being so damn quiet? 

_~ I’m working on something, brother. Answer the man’s question. Where are your manners?_ Kronos’s voice was darkly amused. Methos, who knew that tone, felt his hand twitch as if it wanted something to hit.

_Pest. What the hell are you doing?_

_~ Answer him. I need him distracted._

“No. Yes. A little. Used to.” Amazing, a part of Methos noted, how natural that felt, falling in with his shield-brother even now. Old habits were so damn hard to break. He made himself focus. MacLeod. That was what mattered here. MacLeod, and getting him out alive. “Those are his. Another joke, I think. Good for annoying the neighbours.”

“And the guitars?” MacLeod eyed the immaculate Stratocaster in its stand. “Who’s Keith Moon?”

Methos snorted. And he was weak on pop culture, was he? “A drummer. And yeah, his too. He always liked music.” Understatement. “No one else knows?”

Another grimace, and this time MacLeod’s hand went to the back of his neck, rubbing as if it bothered him. Hell, Mac really didn’t want to talk about this. Methos waited, watching.

“No one. I asked after you at the university. They said you’d taken leave. Bereavement.”

“Yes.” Methos’ tone was flat, devoid of irony or humour. “There was a death in the family. Three of them, in fact.”

MacLeod’s glance this time was more than guilty. It was almost haunted. All he said, though, was; “They had a forwarding address for Pierson. In Cardiff. That’s all. A dead end.”

Actually, it wasn’t a dead end, but Methos paid good money to make it look that way. He pushed the envelope away again, giving MacLeod a hard stare.

“Then how did you bloody well find me?” This was getting annoying. Kronos’ silence was making Methos uneasy, and MacLeod … gods below. “What did you do, just drive around in circles until you picked up a buzz, and then hope it was me? Or do you have _Bratva_ lawyers too?”

MacLeod muttered something. He had crossed the room again, giving Kronos’ silent sword a wide, almost unconscious berth, to stand at the foot of Methos’ bed. Methos scowled.

“What was that, Mac? You’ll have to speak up, you’re dealing with Bronze Age hearing here.”

“I said …” MacLeod trailed off, then shrugged and gave Methos that reluctant, over-the-shoulder glance again. Most unlike him. “Didn’t hope. Knew.”

“What?”

“I knew it was you. I felt it. Like …” He extended his hand, made a grabbing, pulling gesture. “Like that. Like a tug. ‘Come this way’.” He frowned, unsure. “D’ye not feel it too?”

Methos didn’t. Not like that. There was a draw, yes, and he had noticed it before, but it was faint and uncompelling, easily ignored. To him it was, at least. He thought he knew what it was. Kronos’ quickening, the scrap of it in Methos and the blaze of it in MacLeod, split between the two of them by Kronos’ last mad act of defiance, divided and calling to itself. Which meant that …

Kronos had brought MacLeod here. _Drawn_ him here. And MacLeod didn’t even bloody know. Methos cursed inwardly, in some very creative ways.

_Oh, nicely done Kronos. Very fair. He’s a lamb to the slaughter, he has no idea …_

_~ Love and war, brother_. Amused again, and not at all abashed. Methos growled and gritted his teeth.

_And which is this?_

_~ Both, of course_. A dark, indulgent laugh went with that. _When is it ever anything else?_

Methos’ lips tightened, but he was not surprised. _Between us, brother? Never_. He looked at MacLeod, taking in the weariness in the man’s stance, the unease in his eyes. Shit. That bad? Was so much of the fight gone from him already? Slowly, warily, Methos answered the man’s question. “No, Mac. I don’t.”

“Oh.” MacLeod’s brow creased as he registered that; he might have been disappointed. Then he said, quiet and needful, “But you know why I do, don’t you.”

“I might.” On the stereo, John Lennon was singing ‘Mind Games’. Methos thought the irony might kill him. He wished he had the remote. Or that he trusted himself to cross the room (and pass that sword on the way? Not bloody likely) and turn the damned thing off. Over by the bed, MacLeod was nodding, accepting his not-quite answer with only a flicker of hesitation. Ah, but Mac didn’t know what mind games _were_. Poor bastard had always been too honest for his own good. Methos waited to see what would come next. He did not have a good feeling about this.

“It’s strange, you know.” Duncan gestured vaguely about the room, though most of his attention seemed now to be on the hideous triptych over Methos’ bed. “I almost think I recognise some of this. Except that’s impossible, isn’t it. _He_ recognises it. Not me. Those are his memories.”

“MacLeod -”

“You called him K,” MacLeod said, as if Methos hadn’t spoken. Turning, he met Methos’ eyes. His gaze was very steady; his voice shook only a little. “You called him K, and you were the only one who did. He called you … he called you …”

_Tyrant. He called me Tyrant because I made him bloody listen. I called him Pest because he never listened enough. And you have no business knowing that._ Methos didn’t like this. He felt his heart start to thump, hard.

“Mac, stop.”

“He called you Tyrant. Sometimes, for a joke. He _joked_ with you.” MacLeod frowned, as if that were something unheard of, like water flowing uphill. “He loved you.”

“I know.” Methos’ mouth was dry; the words came in a harsh rasp. Something was happening here. He had known that Kronos would not – _could_ not – settle easily in MacLeod, not after he had sundered himself in that final mad leap,

_(catch me, brother)_

_(oh Kronos, oh no, don’t, hold on)_

but he had not expected this. Dreams, yes, and voices, and a brutal, inescapable awareness of something _other_ … but he had not expected to hear such private truths spill from a man who had no business knowing them. He didn’t like it. It wasn’t right. 

This was _his_. His and Kronos’. 

Some things were too close. Methos did not want to share. His voice was low and very hard.

“MacLeod, please. Stop.”

MacLeod ignored him. “He _loved_ you,” he said again. “Not sweetly. Not … not softly. Consuming. Like fire.” He had turned back to the picture now, horrid black velvet, beautiful bronze plaque. He lifted one hand, tracing the plaque’s symbols in the air. He sounded almost as if he were talking to himself. “You taught him the signs. He taught you to be alive. He never held back. All of him, in everything he did. You admired that from the moment you met.”

_‘… playing those mind games forever …’_

Enough. _Enough_. Methos flung his hands up, as if caught between wanting to cover his ears and wanting to hit something until it bled. The sharp crack of his words was startling in the small flat, like a branch breaking. “Stop! That’s enough! That’s _mine!_ Stop!”

At first there was silence. Even the CD was quiet, hovering between tracks. MacLeod did not move. Methos braced his hands on the benchtop and sank down between his shoulder-blades, letting his head hang. All of him, in everything … gods yes, that was Kronos. In life and love and hate, in battle and brotherhood and

_(braced over him in the dark; driving, guiding, goading; pushing him over the edge until they both flew and oh Kronos, oh K fuck let me feel you yes)_

bed – all of him. And it had made him glorious. _Not for you, Mac_ , Methos thought, with a savagery that surprised him. _That’s not for you. It’s **mine**. Give it back. It’s mine_.

He heard MacLeod shift, the rustle of his coat and the tread of his feet as he took three slow steps towards him, then paused. He heard his name, in MacLeod’s voice.

“Methos.”

Not quite MacLeod’s voice. Too light, too bare of that long buried Highland burr. Methos felt his skin go cold.

“ _Shesh_.” Sumerian. _Brother_. “ _Kanngu, libbungu_..” My blood, my heart.

Duncan MacLeod didn’t speak Sumerian. No one spoke Sumerian. Only him. Him and …

_(oh god Kronos what have you done what have you done)_

Methos’ head snapped up. He stared. Dimly he was aware that his hands were aching, clamped so hard to the edge of the bench that they shook, but that seemed far off, unimportant.

Duncan MacLeod didn’t smile like that, either. Like a cat on the edge of a pounce. Only one man smiled like that. Only one man could.

Fuck.

“K?”

“In the flesh.” That smile sharpened, all wrong on Duncan’s face, then faded into something that was more a baring of teeth. “Well, in _his_ flesh. Briefly. He’s strong.”

“How?” _How the hell are you doing this, this is impossible, how …_

“Sheer fucking will. Not much longer. Can’t hold. Bloody _help_ me.”

“ _How?_ ”

“You know how!” Kronos snarled at him with MacLeod’s face, then shuddered as if fighting something off. “Bastard. He won’t have me, he bloody _won’t_ , not this snapping puppy. It should be you. It was meant to be you!”

“Kronos, I …”

“Shut up shut up shut _up_. I can’t _hold_. He’s fighting. I need all of me for this. You or him. Your fucking choice.”

“You’re my choice.” Methos was surprised how easily he said that, surprised how much he meant it. His heart was hammering. His hands relinquished their death-grip on the bench top; his legs promised to hold him up. He had crossed the room to the other man before he even thought. He took him by the shoulders, voice quick and urgent. “You _can_ hold. You’re strong, K, you always have been. You’re a fighter, so bloody fight. Don’t stop. He has weaknesses; use them. His heart, he’s too fucking _good_ , too fair. He’s not ruthless enough, he’s not vicious enough, he won’t fight dirty. Find the weak spots; you can take him; you can _stay_.”

_Oh, you are such a junkie. Such a fucking **addict**. _

_Shut up._

His hands had slipped up MacLeod’s broad shoulders, were clasped now about the back of his neck. They were standing close enough to dance, close enough for Methos to feel the heat coming from the other’s body, close enough, if he wanted, to kiss. He didn’t. MacLeod’s hands gripped his arms hard enough to ache, but Methos barely noticed. He was staring into the other’s face, fascinated. It was so unsettling, so astounding to look into Mac’s eyes and see Kronos’ fire, Kronos’ intensity, Kronos’ ferocity. Kronos’ …

Fear. Methos felt his gut clench and let his hands tighten against MacLeod’s skin. His eyes were searching, recognising what they saw.

“God. Kronos. You’re afraid?”

“More than I’ve ever been in my entire life. Methos, I’m fucking terrified.” And never mind MacLeod’s face, that was pure Kronos, grating out an admission that stung him to the core, offering it to Methos because in spite of the lies they told each other, what was strongest between them was truth. Had always been truth. Those hands – Duncan’s, Kronos’, it didn’t matter – flexed and reached, cupping around Methos’ own neck, pulling him closer still so that they stood, heads lowered, forehead to forehead, breath to breath. “Don’t let me go, brother. Don’t.”

_Oh gods. Oh, **K**. What have you done to yourself?_ Methos drew a steadying breath and promised nothing.

“Just hold on. All right? Hold on.” Distantly, Methos was aware of the song playing in the background – _‘… no I won’t be afraid, no I won’t be afraid, just as long as you stand, stand by me ...’_ – and a part of him wanted to laugh. He wondered, ridiculously, if the stereo was fucking sentient. Ah, but then, it was Kronos’ bloody CD. “Hold on.”

The body against his went very still, and then shivered. Methos closed his eyes. When he opened them again, Duncan’s eyes were completely his own, gentle and confused, creased at the edges with concern. His voice was his own too, thickened with the brogue that always gave away his distress.

“Methos?” He blinked, pulling away, letting his hands drop. Methos let him go. “Methos? What …?”

_‘… if the sky that we look upon should tumble and fall …’_

“Do you know,” Methos said carefully, “what just happened?”

“No. No, I … I was looking a’ tha’ picture.” MacLeod shook his head and smiled, but it was a poor effort, uneven and pale. “That’s really not art, Methos. It’s terrible. Even if it does have a nice frame.”

“Oh Mac. Duncan.” Methos’ mouth tightened in grief. Looking away, he dropped his head with a sigh before raising his gaze to his friend. “I’m sorry. You really are in trouble, aren’t you?”

“I think so.” One of those big, square hands went to the back of MacLeod’s neck again, rubbing at muscles locked tight in spite of the healing lightning that slept under his skin. “At first it was just the voice, and the dreams. And images, like dreaming awake. I’d see a perfect sunrise; he’d show me the sky red with dust and flames, I’d see children playing; he’d show me a row of corpses bloating in the heat. And then I started … losing time. Like now. Only a little, seconds at first, then maybe a minute, here and there. Or longer. I think … I think maybe I’ve done things, Methos. Bad things. The night before I left Paris, I woke up behind a dumpster with blood on my hands and wearing someone else’s shirt. I think I might … it feels like … like I’m slipping. His memories, mine; his thoughts, mine …” MacLeod gave a despairing shrug and turned a pleading gaze on Methos. “It’s all jumbled together and I don’t know anymore. I don’t know how much of it is me. Can you help? Will you?”

Methos didn’t answer at once. Hell, Methos didn’t _know_ the answer. Not to either of those questions. Could he? Maybe. Possibly. He could conceivably try, at least. Would he? Different question altogether. ‘Nothing you don’t want,’ Kronos had told him … and then shown him a glimpse of what he hadn’t known he could have. And now – oh, now he didn’t know what he wanted at all.

This changed the rules. Prodigiously.

_(will you?)_

_(don’t let me go)_

_(why not, brother? why not?)_

_Damn you, K. Mac. Don’t make me choose. Not again._

Conflict made him defensive. What he wanted, what he wanted to want, what he didn’t want at all … fuck. He didn’t need this. Kronos shouldn’t ask it of him. MacLeod shouldn’t either. Perhaps it would be best if Mac just went away and fought this battle on his own, and Methos went with the winner. Yes.

No.

Yes?

Shit. Methos dragged in a very deep breath. Oh, he was the very worst person for Mac to be with, just now. Especially if he was thinking like that. MacLeod had no business trusting him. None at all. 

_Oh, damn you both to hell_. Methos braced himself and asked a question of his own. 

“Are you sure about this, MacLeod?” He kept his voice calm, even mild, but even so, a strain of warning seeped through. Duncan sensed it, going still and lifting his head like a stallion scenting smoke on the wind. Methos made it clearer. “Are you sure you want _my_ help?”

The help of a Horseman. It hung in the air unsaid, but MacLeod heard it all the same. Can you trust me, Methos was asking. You know what I am. Can you?

_(will you accept)_

_(don’t trust me)_

_(please Mac I can’t)_

MacLeod’s mouth tightened. He met Methos’ gaze as evenly as he could.

“I’m here,” he said, as that were enough. “I came to you, didn’t I?”

“Why?”

“Because … because …” Duncan made a frustrated sound and turned away, then swung back with a curse. “Damn it Methos, because there _isn’t_ anyone else. Because you _knew_ him.” He stopped, and looked hard into Methos’ eyes before going on. “And because you came to me when you were lost and said ‘please not you’, and you left the sword at the door and I told you it would be okay and you told me to live. Because of that. All right?”

_‘… darling stand by me, oh now, now, stand by me …’_ Lennon made it sound very simple. Methos knew better. ‘Not you too,’ he’d told MacLeod – pleaded with him, actually, begged him for something, _anything_ , that would mean he had not lost everything that mattered in one throw – and he’d meant it. And maybe that was his reason now too; he still did not want to lose everything, and he was prepared to sacrifice to make that so. Better Mac’s friendship than Mac’s life. He nodded. His expression was very calm, very smooth. His words, hard things, were bare and blunt. MacLeod had to hear this. Had to.

“I knew him. Yes. I’ve known him for four thousand years, on and off, give or take. How long have I known you, Mac?”

Two years. Two years at most. MacLeod shook his head, unable to say it. He raised one hand, palm open. A supplication. Methos wondered if he knew.

“Does it matter? Is that … is that all that matters?” He stared, letting his eyes speak. “Is it?”

“No.” Methos hated the look on MacLeod’s face, hated the words coming from his own mouth; hated, most of all, that a part of him

_(you’re a vindictive little bitch, aren’t you?)_

liked it. But truths could be hard. And choices could be harder still.

Why the fuck were they always making him choose?

“No,” he said again, very firmly. “It’s not. But given that, MacLeod, given that I have known him almost all my life – my very long, sometimes very bloody, sometimes utterly reprehensible life – and given that in all that time, he and I have been to each other everything that two men can be – friends, yes; lovers, yes; brothers, always; rivals, oh _yes_ , and even enemies sometimes, briefly – and that he knows everything I am and accepts it; given that he has been my shield-brother in a way you have never been and never could - my equal, my second self – and that he and I have been through more shades of hell and loss and joy together than you even know exist; given all of that -” – and he was snapping the words off now, spitting them out in the same unapologetic, defiant tone he had used when this hell had all started,

_(is that what you want to hear?)_

glaring narrow eyed and challenging into MacLeod’s face – “- given _all_ of that, do you think you can trust me, MacLeod? Do you really?”

“Yes.” Duncan’s chin came up; he didn’t hesitate at all. It might have been honesty. It might have been sheer contrary need. “Yes.”

_Idiot._ Methos wanted to hit him. Had the man been paying no attention at all?

“You can’t.”

“I do.”

“You fucking don’t!” Methos shouted it at him in sudden rage, lunging forward to grab a double fistful of the other man’s coat and shake him hard enough to make him rock. On the stereo, Lennon launched into a last chorus about loyalty and friendship and standing by; overhead, Mrs duFresne registered her opinion of the shouting below. Methos could have wept. He threw his head back and snarled at the ceiling. “Shut up! Shut _up_ , you meddlesome old bitch!”

“Methos -”

“No! No. Don’t lie to me, Mac. Don’t lie to yourself. You think you’re here because you trust me? You’re not. You’re here because he _wants_ you to be here, because he damned well brought you here!”

“He?” MacLeod brought his hands up, broke Methos’ hold without effort – a quick twist; a practised flick – and shoved him firmly away. “He – what?”

“Kronos.” Methos fairly spat it. His wrist throbbed a little from whatever MacLeod had done; he rubbed it until the tingling stopped. “Kronos. He brought you here.”

“No.” MacLeod shook his head slowly, denial and disbelief. “No. I brought myself … I came …”

“To London? To this bloody place?” Methos laughed unpleasantly. “No, Mac. He brought you here as surely as the Romans brought the Christians to the bloody circus. And I’m the bloody lion.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I can feel him in you! I can feel him bloody _calling_ me.” That old, cold thing was stirring now in the back of Methos’ brain; he let it look through his eyes, saw MacLeod recognise it and suck in his breath. “You killed him, and he’s _in_ you and calling to me, and _I want your bloody quickening_.” He said that low and hard, driving each word home. “Gods, I can feel it. It’s making me itch.” His eyes flashed, bitter-bright, making him look like a hunting leopard in this small, cluttered room. “Do not trust me, MacLeod. Do _not_ trust me.”

“You won’t do it.” MacLeod had not moved. He had shifted his weight a little, ready to spring if he had to, but his hand had not strayed towards the hilt of his hidden sword. “You won’t.”

“You sound very sure of that.”

“You’d have done it at Bordeaux. You’d have tried, at least.” MacLeod blinked, as if he’d only just realised something. “God. That’s what you were fighting? Why you ran? That’s why you were so … ?”

“Feral?” Methos gave a half-strangled laugh. “What, you thought I was just pissed off with you over throwing me against my car? For playing bad music and making me put up with shitty hotel decor?”

“I thought you probably had better reasons than that. Shock. Grief. Stress. I killed your brothers, after all. And you nearly died. And,” MacLeod added, with a wryness that rivalled Methos’ own, “I’ve been told I was a judgemental prick about all of it.”

“Yeah, well. Nothing wrong with a little home truth.” Even so, Methos couldn’t help letting the corner of his mouth curl. He felt, suddenly, very much less tense.

“You didn’t do it. You acted like you’d gone mad, but you didn’t do it.”

“I wanted to.”

“No.” This time MacLeod really was certain. “You didn’t. You said so. ‘I don’t want to.’ Over and over, you said so.”

“Didn’t think you were listening.”

“I heard you. You didn’t want to then, you don’t want to now.”

Ah, well, maybe the big daft Scot did pay attention sometimes. But that still wouldn’t save him. Methos gave a tight, unhappy smile, rueful and wry. “Don’t stake your life on that, MacLeod. People do things that they don’t want to do all the time. The gods know I do..”

“Methos -”

“I don’t want to want it. If that helps.” Another twist of the lips went with that, more rue, less smile. His hand moved, twitching towards the dark-hilted sword still standing sentinel by the balcony doors. “It’s not always me.”

MacLeod’s eyes followed the flicker of Methos’ hand and lit on that heavy, dull grey blade. He nodded, very slowly, and Methos saw him begin to understand. 

“He’s caught you too, hasn’t he?”

God. That made Methos laugh, sardonic and brief. He shook his head, somewhere between resignation and regret; the irony in his tone was aimed entirely at himself. “Oh, he caught me a long time ago. Or we caught each other. He and I, what we are, what we’ve done, everything between us -” and Methos paused for a moment as lightning flashed behind his eyes, casting light on an old tableau ( _and oh, he remembered a holy place under a white moon, and the sharp sting of a knife, and Kronos’ hand reaching for his own while blood mingled with blue fire over their skin and a voice that might have been his own said ‘_ Yes. I will. I swear _,’ and Kronos’ eyes were very bright and then there was breath and breath and breath and promise me brother, promise me_ ) but then the vision passed, and Methos gave a low, tired sigh. “I’m sorry, MacLeod. There’s no rehab in the world for this.”

“Do you want there to be?”

Oh, clever, _clever_ bastard. Methos considered telling him the truth – or at least part of it, as much of it as he ever told – and then wondered if he actually knew what the truth was, when it came to that.

_I don’t know what I fucking want. I want two impossible things to be true at once, Mac. I want my brother back and I want you to live and not hate me. Are you clever enough for that? Am I?_

No. There was too much naked, unguarded folly in that. Too much honesty, and Methos couldn’t be that vulnerable, not now. He felt his lips thin in a grimace and made a quick, frustrated gesture with one hand.

“It doesn’t matter what I want. When it comes to Kronos, it never really did.” Which was both true and not, but Methos did not feel like explaining. MacLeod would not understand anyway. 

“So that’s it? Even now, you’ll take his side?” MacLeod made a brief sound of disbelief. Methos took a bleak satisfaction from that. Duncan was so bloody predictable. “I _need_ you, Methos! You can’t just turn away, not for the sake of something that happened thousands of years ago!”

Oh, that wasn’t fair. That. Was not. Fair.

_Hurts, doesn’t it Mac?_

Methos’ words were deliberately brutal. “Why not?” he demanded, feeling reckless. “You did.” 

Or not so reckless. It was the truth, after all. He meant it to wound.

_You did, Mac. You bloody did. Don’t you dare deny it._

MacLeod didn’t. He didn’t say anything at all. He only stared, locking eyes with Methos across the short, charged space between them. The silence was heavy and wretched. At last, very calmly, Duncan said, “Am I still paying for that?”

“We all are.” Methos tightened his jaw, looked away. “You, me. Him. For all of it. And I can’t fix it. You need to stop expecting me to.”

_You both do._

“Please, Methos.” MacLeod’s voice was beyond quiet, beyond need. He reached out, slow and very careful, and touched Methos’ shoulder. “I trust you. Whatever he wants from you, whatever hold he has, it’s your choice -”

“Do you think so?” A dark, dismissive laugh went with that, though Methos’ eyes didn’t play along with the sound. They were sad. “Oh, MacLeod. Never trust a junkie. You remember that.”

_Not even when he might be the cure?_ Methos’ inner voice spoke up, sidelong and curious. _Methadone to K’s heroin, perhaps?_

_I don’t want a cure. Methadone’s a shit drug. Now shut up and pass me the needle._

God, he was such an addict. Dropping his head, Methos pressed the fingertips of one hand to his forehead as though even thinking the words hurt him and breathed out, hard. He spoke to the floor.

“You’d better go, MacLeod. It’s not safe, and I can’t help you. I’m not what you need.”

_Can’t, or won’t?_ MacLeod, though, was kinder than the voices in Methos’ head; he did not ask that question. Perhaps he didn’t have to. He probably knew the answer. 

Or thought he did. MacLeod, Methos had reason to know, was good at conclusions. Good at jumping to them.

_Let it stand. Let it stand._

_Let him go._

MacLeod didn’t speak. He gave a short, too-tired sigh and turned a level gaze on

_(if we were ever friends who are you Methos what are you?)_

the other man, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a sad, very faint smile. Methos did his best not to meet his eyes. It hurt, to see Duncan like this. Why wasn’t he insisting, fighting back, pushing for the answers he wanted? Was he so close to giving up? 

_Oh, Mac._ _Where’s your fire? Isn’t there anything left? Isn’t there **anything**?_

Maybe there wasn’t. MacLeod didn’t push, didn’t snap at him in anger or desperation, didn’t throw the tatters of their friendship in Methos’ face. All he did was nod once, very quietly, very contained – and oh, the exhaustion in his eyes! – and move towards the door. Methos’ shoulders slumped as Duncan moved past him, but he didn’t turn to watch him go.

He’d seen that before. Didn’t need to see it again.

He was so fucking tired of watching them go.

At the door, Mac paused. Methos heard the click of the latch, heard him hover in the doorway. His voice was grey, like ashes. “I’m sorry, Methos. I hoped you might … that you could … well.”

_Yeah, I hoped so too_. Methos shut his eyes. _Looks like we were both wrong, then. Just go, you idiot Scot. Just go._

“I won’t bother you again. Thanks for the beer. I’ll tell Joe you’re all right.”

Methos didn’t respond. Great. Now Joe could hate him too.

“You should open your mail.” Another pause, long enough for Methos to say something, do something, take it back. He didn’t. The CD was playing ‘Instant Kharma’, exhorting them to all shine on.

MacLeod said, “Goodbye.” And he shut the door.

Fuck. Fuck fuck _fuck_. Methos stood where he was for a moment, counting his own heartbeats – and yes, he had a heart, and yes, for some fucking reason it was still beating – up to ten … and then he sank to his knees and let his head fall. He wanted to howl; instead, he bunched his fists and struck them hard into his own thighs, once, twice, three times.

No no no no no. No.

_‘ … what in the world you thinking of, laughing in the face of love, what on earth you trying to do, it’s up to you, yeah you …’_

_Up to you. Up to **me**._

“Mac, wait.” No, that wasn’t loud enough. That wasn’t going to carry. MacLeod would be halfway down the stairs by now, stepping past that grey devil of a cat (and he wouldn’t kick it, even though Methos had bloody well told him to; Mac never did things like that), moving with his big shoulders bowed and his head down, his eyes, always so honest, blank with hurt and disappointment. Methos was going to have to do better than that. He cleared his throat.

“MacLeod, don’t go.”

Not enough. Not enough. MacLeod would be at the door now, and then in a cab, and then …

Gone.

_Gone?_

_Fuck that. **Move**._

Hurling himself to his feet, Methos scrambled across the flat. Boxes got in the way; he knocked one aside, hurdled another, and flung himself at the balcony doors. The sword tipped sideways and tried to tangle itself in his feet; he kicked at it, swearing in a low and desperate stream. The door was stubborn, the lock was stiff, he hadn’t bloody opened it since he’d got here, shit did it even open at all or was it fucking nailed shut, no, please Fortuna, please you bitch you withered crone you capricious, hateful old hoyden, please let it open, please, _please_ …

The door grated open with a judder of protest, swollen in the damp. _Thank you thank you thank you_. Methos launched through the gap, scraping one arm painfully on the latch and making blood bloom briefly in a small spot on his sleeve, but he paid that no mind. He hit the rail hard enough to wind himself, staring frantically down into the street.

_Come on Fortuna, don’t let me down now, don’t … oh, come on you slut, please, **please** -_

There. There he was, paused on the curb under a winter-bare tree surrounded by rusting iron railings. To Methos, the relief was almost physical.

“Mac! _Mac!_ Fucking hell, don’t you listen you stupid bloody Scot? Mac!!” And then, finding in himself a voice he hadn’t used in years but that had once done wonders for moving recalcitrant troops across a training field, “ _Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod!_ ”

Mac heard that. He could hardly not. Half of South bloody London heard that. MacLeod’s head snapped up; he spun on the spot, staring up, and nearly tripped into the gutter. Methos laughed. Stupid, _stupid_ , stubborn infuriating idiot Highlander. Tripping over his own feet. Perfect. Beautiful.

“Me …” MacLeod halted himself with an effort (and Methos supposed he had to give the man points for remembering, even now, not to fling his name about like a handful of confetti), then started again. “Adam? What is it?”

“Mac, I was wrong. Maybe. I don’t know.” _Yeah, that’s brilliant Methos. Blather into the street like a brain-addled lunatic_. _Do that some more, that will help. Idiot._ He took a breath, told himself to slow down. “There’s a church, All Saints’, off the High Street, near the bridge. There’s a café annex.” God, he loved the modern church. Caffeine and holy ground, so nicely combined. “Can you find it?”

“All Saints. Near the bridge.” MacLeod nodded. He had his hand raised to shield his eyes from the glare of the pale winter sky. “Yes. When?”

“Tomorrow? Ten?”

In the street below, MacLeod hesitated. Methos understood and spat out an impatient curse. Damn it, what time was it? Noon?

“All right, all right. Give me an hour. Two. Two hours.”

“I’ll be there.”

There was a taxi trundling along the street – of course there bloody was, when Mac wanted one; Methos could have stood out there for three hours waiting and never laid eyes on anything that hadn’t had its hubcaps stolen, and that after calling ahead to book, and thank you Fortuna again – and it stopped obligingly for MacLeod’s lifted hand. Mac leaned in the window, said something to the driver, then got in. Methos watched the car move down the street, kept watching until it turned the corner. 

It wasn’t so bad watching them go when he wasn’t watching them _leave_.

Above him, Methos heard another door open. There was a scraping on the balcony above, and a clatter of plastic planters. A cat mewed. It sounded, to Methos, faintly mocking.

Bloody cat.

“Mr Falkirk!” The voice that called down sounded prim and pursed, as if it came from a mouth set perpetually in a disapproving pout. “This is intolerable. I really must inform you that if this level of disturbance goes on I will be speaking to the leasing agent.”

“Go ahead, why don’t you.” Methos pulled his gaze away from the now empty street and mentally sent a one-fingered salute skyward. Interfering old witch _._ “Knock your doilies off.” A gust of chill wind made Methos shiver (London in bloody February: why hadn’t he gone some place warm?) and he turned back for the shelter of his flat. He cast a warning glare towards the balcony above and the unseen speaker there. “And keep your bloody cats away from my mail.” He shut the door with a very deliberate thud.

Inside, he stood for a long moment with his head down. Kronos’ fallen sword lay at his feet, quiet across the threshold. With a deep sigh, Methos bent and picked it up. The blade hummed faintly in his hand.

_Oh, my brother. What am I going to do with you?_

There was no answer. Methos had not expected one. Kronos had gone silent. Probably that meant that he was off tormenting MacLeod again – or that he had exhausted himself doing the impossible, wresting control away from Mac to show Methos what was at stake, and how desperately he meant this, and how hard he was willing to fight.

As if, Methos thought, there had ever been any doubt about that. Kronos always fought, and he always gave everything he had. Always such defiance. Always such _strength_. And it made him shine.

Mac always fought too. And he had a strength of his own. Methos had known that no good could come of having the two of them – equal, opposite, so very much the same – in the same space. He should, he supposed bitterly, have done more to prevent it.

Very deliberately, Methos raised the sword in front of him, angling the blade to catch the light. He watched the patterns of bright and dark chase each other down the weapon’s solid length, checking from long habit for signs of nicks or flaws. The sword was in good order – Methos may have made himself stop carrying it, but he still oiled it once a week, along with his own – and the tempered steel had been designed to take more punishment than only being kicked into a door. The door frame had come off second best, an ugly starburst of naked wood showing raw against the white paint. Methos didn’t care. Damaged woodwork could be painted over. Betrayed loyalties could not. 

What a fucking mess.

Mac on his doorstep, haunted and hopeful and asking for his help. Kronos in his head and under his skin and in his bloody flat, wearing MacLeod’s body like an ill-fitting suit; Kronos, so desperately determined to salvage himself, not to fade, not to be lost like this.

Himself, caught endlessly in between. Impossible alternatives. Impossible demands.

It wasn’t meant to be like this. It _wasn’t_.

Fuck it. With a choked curse, Methos surged into movement all at once, spinning on his heel and swinging the heavy blade in a swift, savage arc. He put all of everything into the blow, all his grief and guilt, all the furious rush of his resentment and rage and raw, aching fear. Fuck them both for doing this to him, for trapping him in this hell where every fucking choice he made would be wrong, _had_ to be wrong, because this was too fucked to be right, to _ever_ be right, and why hadn’t they listened, why hadn’t MacLeod stayed away, why the fuck would Kronos never bloody _stop_ , why did he always have to damned well _choose_ –

The sword slammed into one of the stacked boxes, tearing a jagged hole through one corner and sending the whole thing flying. The box hit the wall with a satisfying thump and the sound of something breaking – and it could have been anything from Waterford crystal to a collection of ashtrays from Blackpool; Methos neither knew nor cared – and Methos let the sword fall to his side in something very like relief.

That was better. A little. Maybe.

Overhead, Mrs duFresne thumped on the ceiling in condemnation. Twice. Hard. 

Very slowly, Methos raised his gaze to the ceiling, eyes wide as if he had never heard such a sound before – or as if he had never thought to hear it again. Old bat wanted to pick a fight, did she? Oh, _perfect_. His eyes went to Kronos’ well-worked drum kit, the sticks lying where he had left them, across one of the floor toms. He was not the musician Kronos had been, but a brief stint as a roadie back in the ‘70’s had taught Methos which part of the drum to hit, at least. And a longer stint living in the Subura back in the second century had taught him more about dealing with difficult neighbours than any a suburban Londoner could begin to imagine. 

Even a suburban Londoner with cats.

Methos slid onto the stool, lifted the sticks, and felt his lips pull back into something hard that glittered. His long-ago shield-brothers would have recognised that expression at once, and known to either duck for cover or reach for their own weapons; even MacLeod might have had the sense to back away from that battlefield grin. He flicked the sticks between his fingers and settled his grip (and there was another memory, another long buried flash: Kronos’ breath on his neck – _“No, brother; like this,”_ – and the skin of the drum sighing between them) and his foot found the kick pedal with barely a fumble. He gave the pedal a sharp, experimental tap. The bass drum let out a deep, resonant boom. Methos’ grin widened.

If Mrs duFresne wanted a war, she could bloody well have one. Yes. Oh _yes_.

*****


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imagine there's no heaven  
> It's easy if you try  
> No hell below us  
> Above us only sky  
> Imagine all the people  
> Living for today...

Duncan MacLeod let his head fall back against the seat of the black London cab and waited for a wave of relief that didn’t come. He had been so sure that this would be the end of it. _Find Methos_ , that insistent voice had whispered in the back of his brain. Methos will know what to do, Methos will have the answers, Methos will help. 

He always had before.

But this time, he hadn’t. This time, Methos had answered the door like a stranger,

_(I don’t know you you don’t know me we’re through Mac remember)_

hostile and distant, and offered him next to nothing. In fact, from his carefully blank expression and the dissonance in his eyes, half dismissive and half utter despair, MacLeod did not think that Methos had been pleased to see him at all.

That hurt, rather more than MacLeod had expected, though he couldn’t have said why. The two of them had not parted on the best of terms in Bordeaux. MacLeod was not sure whose fault that was. The Horsemen, Methos’ blood-soaked past

_(ten thousand, MacLeod, and Cassandra was nothing, and I go with the winner, like always)_

and his cold lizard’s eyes, and all the lies and half-truths that had fallen away like broken glass, cutting them both as they went … MacLeod could not forget that. But nor could he forget that Methos had turned from his brothers in the end, that he had said no when some deep and ancient part of him had so badly wanted to say yes, oh _yes_ , and that it had cost him dearly. MacLeod had seen the proof of that when Methos had wept in his arms in the night, dragging the broken pieces of himself back together around a depth of loss that MacLeod could not comprehend – and could not quite, even as his heart hurt for his friend’s pain, pity. 

Because no part of Methos should have wanted to say yes. Not to that. Not to what Kronos was.

_What I **am.**_ The voice was sharp and hard, all bared fangs and fury. _What we both are. We’re the same, he and I. We’re the **same**._

_No you’re not,_ MacLeod thought back viciously _. You’re **dead**. And he’s not. And neither am I._

That was true, as far as it went. He and Methos had managed not to kill one another in Bordeaux, managed it in spite of the pain that tore at them and the knives they had flung, in spite of the vicious things

_(they were monsters they deserved to die_

_they were my brothers you fucking hypocrite_

_we’re through we’re fucking through)_

they had said and the scent of blood and ozone and the crash and howl of the quickenings that neither of them wanted that had hammered through them. Managed it, Mac now thought, in spite of a thousand reasons and all the provocation in the world. 

Sighing, MacLeod closed his eyes and wondered how they had come to this. That night of blood and lightning had ended in half a truce, and Mac remembered thinking then that perhaps there was something left between them that was worth salvaging after all … but he had not been ready to forgive. How, for pity’s sake, did one go about forgiving Death? Duncan had had no idea, then. He had no real idea now. And then Methos had been gone with the dawn and, save for that one fraught meeting in the cemetery where neither of them had said

_(I’m sorry MacLeod, for what I was and what I did, sorry I said I liked it)_

_(times change Methos, people change, that isn’t who you are anymore)_

what they wanted to say, they had not spoken since. Not until today. There was a part of MacLeod that was glad of that, in a cowardly sort of way. It was easier, after all, not talking about it, and Mac still did not know how much concession he could give, even now. The Horsemen, with their history of destruction and cruelty, were nothing that MacLeod could understand or accept, and as for Methos … Mac made a low, unhappy sound. He had never understood Methos, even at the best of times. Why should that change now? ‘Never trust a junkie, Macleod’ - god, what did that even mean?

With a sigh, MacLeod rolled his head to the side, watching the grey city slide past. Two hours. It wasn’t much, as promises went. Still, at least Methos had agreed to talk. That had to be worth something. Didn’t it?

_Does it? Really?_ The whisper in the back of Mac’s brain was dubious, unconvinced. _Since when has Methos’ word been worth anything?_

Rain fell on the windows, blurring the world outside. MacLeod pretended he had not heard anything. He was spending a lot of time doing that, these days - ignoring the voices in his head. Some part of him wondered that he was not getting better at it. If practice made perfect, Mac should have had ignoring voices down to an art.

_He lies_.

MacLeod barely twitched, though his jaw tightened as he stared at the scurry of people on the street, tucked under coats and umbrellas. Their faces were pale smudges on the other side of the glass. Yes, Methos lied. Newsflash. As if that was something that he didn’t already know.

_He’ll run. **Again**_ **.**

Mac supposed that was possible. Two hours was plenty of time to skip town, and Methos had a talent for making himself scarce. He had quite simply vanished after Bordeaux, slipping away like a shadow and leaving MacLeod to think what he would, to think the worst, to think anything at all. It had taken this long to track him down. If Methos ran again, Mac doubted that he would be able to find the man at all.

Not until it was too late, anyway. It was almost too late already. MacLeod didn’t need any voices to tell him that. Whatever was happening here, Mac didn’t think he had a lot of time left _._ And Methos, he was pretty sure, was the last best chance that he had.

Presuming he had a chance at all. Presuming that Methos could help. Presuming, after everything that had happened, that he even would.

Presuming rather a lot, actually. 

_Don’t trust me, MacLeod_. A different voice, this time: Methos’, echoing in his memory. _Do **not** trust me._

As if, Mac thought, he had a bloody choice. 

Taking a breath, MacLeod turned his face from the glass and lifted one hand to rub his fingertips against his forehead, staving off the headache that never seemed far away, just lately. Tension, probably. He was always tense, these days. It was hard for a man to relax when he felt like he was being hunted from the inside out.

“Hard night, guv?”

The driver’s voice made Duncan look up. The cabbie was watching him in the rear view mirror; Duncan met the man’s eyes in the narrow rectangle of glass. He made a face and grunted, conceding.

“Hard night, yeah. Hard week.” Sitting straighter, Mac scrubbed a hand down his jaw, feeling the stubble catch. When had he last shaved? _Hard bloody decade_. He heard himself say, “Red-eye flight, got in this morning. Does it show?”

“If I said it didn’t, I’d be telling porkies.” In the mirror, the cabbie grinned at him and winked before flicking his eyes back to the road. MacLeod, watching him, felt suddenly and unaccountably angry. He knew he looked like hell, didn’t need to be told. Didn’t need some smug bastard giving him that ‘we’re all in this together’ grin, like they were fucking equals. Mac found himself staring at the back of the man’s neck, at the soft hollow at the base of his skull where a knife would slice through the vertebrae as easily as -

God. Not this again. Taking a deep breath MacLeod squeezed his eyes shut and _shoved_ , hard.

_(you’re dead get out of my head get out get out you’re dead)_

Inside him something twisted and flexed, and MacLeod shuddered at the incandescence that burst along his bones. Kronos’ quickening in him had lost none of its intensity, none of its jagged, complex power: it was still fierce enough to turn the world inside out. For a moment MacLeod could smell blood, and in the dark behind his eyes a white bull tossed its head skyward and rocks began to rain down, and a voice, very faint, called out in a language he didn’t understand. His hands tightened into fists and he pushed those not-quite memories down, doing his best to ignore how far the effort frayed what endurance he had left.

The voice faded; the scent of blood was gone. Opening his eyes, MacLeod leaned over to look up at the unfriendly winter sky. The only thing falling was rain, fine and chill. Mac thought about putting the window down so that he could feel it on his face, washing him clean,

_(soot and blood and ash and sweat, and sweet Mother, where was that screaming coming from)_

_(we have to go it’s all coming down)_

washing him away. He didn’t, though. He felt thin enough already.

His fingers were drumming against his thigh. The staccato rhythm was unsettling, making Mac’s nerves, already on worn, shiver. He flattened his hand, pressing his fingers into his leg hard enough to ache, and didn’t turn his face from the window. London was grey and cold, and he wasn’t going to be able to do this alone.

_Come on, Methos. Please. Don’t let me down._


End file.
